


Bluffing

by Woman_of_Letters



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gambling, Implied Relationships, Light Angst, Nicknames, Poker, Poker Nights, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:41:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24686284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woman_of_Letters/pseuds/Woman_of_Letters
Summary: David Jacobs is bad at card games, and even worse at keeping his foot out of his mouth.Or, Davey is curious where the Newsies nicknames come from, and why they use them
Relationships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 6
Kudos: 94





	Bluffing

**Author's Note:**

> First fic for the Newsies fandom, which is incredible, considering how much I love this show. For now this is a oneshot, but I definitely have a lot more headcannons waiting to be written, so if there's enough demand, you might see more in this verse. Leave a comment if you liked it and want more!  
> In that vein, this is unbetaed, so if you notice unintentional mistakes, feel free to point them out.  
> If you're here hoping that I'm gonna update one of the tons of other fics left unfinished, I'm so sorry I have no excuses.  
> No trigger warnings that I'm aware of, lmk if I missed anything.  
> Enjoy :D

Davey was bad at card games. Race had given him some pointers, but now David was wondering if he really should be taking them, considering how the blond was cleaning out almost every round.

It was a wild night, what with a large group of Brooklyn newsies over at the lodge for the monthly poker tournament. David, after much persuasion, had gotten permission from his parents to spend the night with the other boys on occasion. So there they were, Race cackling in delight after winning another hand, Albert chucking a bottle cap at his friend’s head. Spot was squeezed onto the bunk next to Race, the permanent scowl etched on his face a little less pronounced. Crutchie was laying on his stomach, propped up on an elbow to keep an eye on Racetrack’s shuffling while Romeo asked for more card tricks. JoJo, Specs, Finch, and a handful of Brooklyn newsies Davey didn’t know were keeping up a steady stream of background chatter while Patches dozed on Jack’s knee.

Jack was keeping a watchful eye over them all, looking almost…well, paternal wasn’t quite the right word, but something along those lines, as well as proud and content. It was a good night.

Which is why Davey had to throw a wrench in the works, obviously.

“Call or fold, _Mouth_ ,” Spot grumbled, his face as inscrutable as ever.

Davey tossed a handful of matches into the center, banking on his decent three 9s to let him get at least one over on Race, who had a little crease between his eyebrows like he might be worried. “Why do you all do that?”

Jack muttered something under his breath that caused Spot’s lip to twitch up (no small feat) as he tossed his hand down.

“We’s do what?” Spot asked as Crutchie followed Jack’s lead to fold.

“Use nicknames. Gimme a nickname. I don’t know,” David’s heart sunk slightly as Race overturned the River, shooting down any chance he might have of 4 of a kind. “Henry and Elmer and Albert and Jack don’t use nicknames, don’t see why everyone else does.”

Jack’s head snapped up as Spot snorted. “Ya think ‘Jack Kelly’ is a real name? ‘S cute.”

“It’s not?”

“ _Cállate,_ _sé tu nombre, tonto.”_

To David’s infinite surprise, those few hissed words caused Spot Conlon to snap his mouth closed, a deadly glare shot in the direction of the Manhattan leader. He barely put any thought into matching Race’s raise.

Crutchie tactfully interrupted. “As far’s I know, Al and Elmer’s the only ones that uses their real names.”

“Wait, really?” David’s attention was recaptured.

“I’s said so, didn’t I?”

The conversation was temporarily diverted as Race showed his hand of 2 queens, giving him a full house. David groaned, Albert booed, and Race crowed with delight as he swept his winnings into an ever growing pile.

“Goddamn cheat, I’s tellin’ ya,” Albert near shouted.

“Nah, you all’s just bad at cards,” Race stuck his unlit cigar into his mouth at a jaunty angle. “Anyways, Davey, they’s call me Racetrack cause that’s whereabouts I’m always hanging ‘round. ‘S how me and this lousy bum—” punctuated with a shove at Spot’s shoulder, “—became such good friends. ‘e damn near threw me off the bridge first time ‘e caught me coming from there.”

The King of Brooklyn’s scowl looked more like a ridiculous pout, “And I will again, friends or no.”

“Well, the nicknames themselves are pretty self-explanatory. Or,” Davey reflected on Jack and Spot, amending his statement, “well, some of them at least. But why use them at all? I don’t think I know any of your real names.”

“And you ain’t gonna, neither.”

Davey was taken aback by the open hostility in Race’s voice. The boy’s face had hardened, his grip on the deck tight, and he was biting so had at his cigar one might’ve thought he’d break it. Davey would think he’d be looking at one of the Delancey’s that way, and to see that look turned upon himself was more than a little quelling. At his side, Spot was bristling like an angry pit bull. Romeo was shifting nervously, eyes darting between the two boys as conversation in the room dulled.

Only Albert looked unperturbed, using the opportunity to sneak a few matchsticks away from Race’s horde. “I use my name cause I don’t mind it and it don’t hurt me none,” he said, casually as if he were talking about the headline. “Most here ain’t safe to go abouts using your real name, ya don’t get to be a street rat fer nothin. ‘Cept for Spot over there, since we all know ‘is last name ‘n shit, I thinks he just uses ‘Spot’ cause ‘is real name sounds stupid or something.”

The look Spot swung onto Albert would have made the business men he sold to everyday stop in their tracks, but Al kept smiling in spite of it. “So’s your theory is my real name’s so stupid I’d prefer ‘ _Spot’_?”

The incredibility in his voice caused a snort of laughter to escape Race, his hands relaxing slightly. Spot continued, “You wanna talk ‘bout stupid names, look no fartha than Cowboy over there.”

Jack flipped him off. “I don’t use my name cause I got a, whatchamacallit, a _criminal record_ ,” Jack pronounced it with all the snootiness Katherine could conjure when she really set her mind to it. “But ‘e’s right, it is damn stupid.”

“My name’s Charlie,” Crutchie offered up. “Charlie Morris. But the Delancey’s and some of ‘em older boys kept callin’ me ‘Crutchie’ to—to taunt me when Jack first dragged me here that I’s kinda just started callin’ myself by it to, ‘nd it stuck. Word like that can’t do no harm when you claim it as your own. ‘Course the Delancey’s just moved on to other words.” He shrugged.

“Do you…do you _want_ us to call you Charlie?” Davey asked, hesitantly.

“Nah,” the other boy shot him a lopsided grin. “Crutchie suits me just fine.”

“Same as ‘Racetrack’ suits me,” Race added. “’Nd ‘Jack’ suits Jack, ‘nd ‘Spot’ suits Spot, ‘nd ‘Romeo,’ wells, we all just calls him that cause it’s fucking accurate.”

Romeo flipped him off.

“As fer you, Davey, ‘Mouth’ suits you too, what with dredgin’ up these depressin’-ass conversations. Names can be dangerous, ‘nd they can carry lots’a hurt with’em too.”

With that, he jammed his cigar more firmly in his mouth and started dealing another hand.

“I’m sorry,” Davey said, so quiet it could have been a whisper. “I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories or anything, I was just curious.”

Jack laughed, that loud barking one he had that you could always tell was genuine. “Yeah, you’s curious enough fer the whole lodging, _Mouth_ ,” the nickname was spoken with a sardonic lilt. “It’ll getcha in trouble one’a these days. Long as ya don’t mean nothing by it, we’s don’t mind. We know ya don’t mean to be stickin’ that nose o’ yours where it don’t belong; sometimes ya’s mouth just runs ahead of yer brains a little.”

Davey flashed him a rare, private grin. “As I recall, my mouth running ahead of my brain is how we started a strike.”

This prompted a chorus of yells, laughs, playful jeers, and shoves.

“That it is, Mouth,” Jack’s smile could have split his face in two. “That it is.”


End file.
